Race the Darkness (19 page)

He was speaking English. She understood what each individual word meant, but in that particular combination, it just wouldn't compute. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I told Kent everything you said about Mr. Goodspeed. He contacted Sunny County Children's Services and the local sheriff's office and had a plainclothes officer stop Mr. Goodspeed the moment he pulled into the parking lot. They found his gun tucked into the back of his trousers and a suicide note in his car. He had intended to kill them all and then himself. But the information from your dream stopped it before it occurred.”

His eyes were the color of liquid gold and sincere, so gosh-darned sincere that she nearly believed him. Silence loitered between them while her mind rammed, bashed, and smashed into an impenetrable wall of disbelief. “My dream?”

Xander set his phone facedown on the table and grabbed her other hand in his. He looked into her eyes as if what he was about to say resided on the level of gospel. “Yes, dream. You are
dreaming
about these events.”

The way he looked at her made her want to accept her own innocence. But the memory was so vivid, so intense, and full of horror—there was no way it hadn't been real. The strength of his personality swayed the logic in her mind. She let go of his hands, scooted back in her chair, stood, and walked across the cabin to stare out the window.

Outside, everything seemed so idyllic and calm. A lazy buzzard rode a current of air over the tops of the trees, then out over the yard. The sun shone through the bird's wings, backlighting them with an oddly angelic glow.

“It's real. Not a dream. I have felt the sun on my skin, the splatters of blood hitting my face. I see it. I hear it. I feel it. I can't move and I can't fight, but I'm right there…” Wait. Something had always been a bit off. She always got plunked down in a white nothingness that morphed into a picture, and then she couldn't control her own body. Could the explanation be as simple—and complicated—as a dream?

“You were with me when you had the first dream, the one about Simon Smith killing Courtney Miller. You got up out of your hospital bed and walked down the hallway and stared out a window. The second dream, I found you running up the driveway in the middle of the night. The last dream, I found you slumped on your bedroom floor, staring at nothing.”

He was throwing her a lifeline, but she could only grab on with one shaky hand. Part of what he said made sense. She had thought she'd been to Prospectus Prairie Park. She had thought she'd been to Sunny County Children's Services. But she hadn't. Not really. But Gran… Those terrible memories had teeth that bit her to the bone.

“You weren't physically there when your grandmother died. There was a suspicious vehicle parked at the end of the driveway that night. The BCI lifted prints off the front door that don't belong to any of us. They are analyzing the bedding for DNA. I know it's hard to wrap your brain around, took me interrogating those two yahoos before I'd believe it. There's no other logical explanation.” He spoke from right behind her.

“You call that logical?” There might've been a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“I threw out logical the moment I found you in that trailer. I'm operating on the what-feels-right theory. I know you loved your grandmother. I know you would never let her get hurt. I know that, and deep down you do too.”

Her vision went sloshy. “Then
why
”—she said that word with cynicism—“why did William Goodspeed and everyone else in that dream live but Gran had to die?”

“Baby, I don't know. I don't have all the answers. I'm muddling through this too.”

That bit of honesty tipped the scales in her mind and she believed him. He stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned against him, hugging those arms that held her safe and secure.

And finally, she completely, wholeheartedly believed him. “But why would a priest kill Gran?”

A soft, faltering knock on the door stole Xander's response. He let go of her and walked across the room to answer the door. Void of his touch, she felt as if she'd gone from being warmed by the sun to freezing on the dark side of the moon. She wrapped her arms around her waist, a poor imitation of how Xander held her.

She watched him open the door. Watched shock knock him back half a step before he caught himself, visibly braced, then said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I'd tell you to get off my property, but it's technically fucking yours.” The venom in Xander's voice was potent enough to take down a bull elephant.

With those words, she knew who must be standing there.

Alex.

One moment Isleen was clear across the room; the next, she pushed in next to Xander, primed and ready to provide support, backup, and a united front against the man who had never been a dad to Xander and who had verbally attacked her.

But the man standing on the porch didn't look like the Alex she'd met. The one she'd met had eyes that didn't see and showed no emotion—beyond anger at her and affection for Gran. This guy's face was pure expression. This guy looked like he'd endured multiple lifetimes of torment, and the memories were too morbidly obese for one man to keep hauling around. His eyes were a luminous light blue that seemed backlit from the bloodshot shine of unexpressed tears. Deep worry furrows lined his forehead and slashed down either side of his mouth. His thick gray hair was slicked back straight and severe, like a punishment.

Xander put his arm around her, drawing her to him as if ready to shield her from his own father. It made her look weak, but she didn't care. She leaned in to him, enjoying how utterly safe and protected she felt. Alex wasn't going to be able to hurt her because in this moment she felt absolutely invincible.

“Xan—” Alex's timid tone overflowed with remorse and repentance.

Xander's arm cinched her tighter against his body, almost as if he were seeking comfort from holding on to her.

“Oh no. Don't you even. Don't you even go there in your damned head. I don't want to hear it.” Xander's voice was a blade, stabbing each word toward his father. “No apology, no amount of sorry-my-bad is going to fucking fix what you broke over twenty-five years ago. No fucking way.”

“Xan—” Alex held his hands up in a cops-and-robbers way of surrendering.

“You want to make me happy? Go back to pretending I don't exist.” Xander stepped forward, neatly ushered her in behind him, and looked out on the porch. “Hopkins, escort him off my porch and don't let him come knocking again.”

There was someone out there? She peeked around Xander to see a middle-aged man in oddly oversized pants and a baggy dress shirt step up to Alex. “Mr. Stone, you need to leave. Now.” Hopkins' voice wasn't intimidating, but the bulky gun strapped on his belt was a clear warning not to mess with him.

Alex ignored the guy and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. She couldn't tell if the gesture was one of guilt or contemplation, or a stall tactic. Xander stepped back from the open doorway, reaching for her, pressing her into his side while closing the door.

“Did you really dream about what happened to Gale?” Alex's words rushed out, powerful enough to stop the door Xander had been about to shut in his face. Isleen met the man's gaze. His eyes begged for another chance with her, with Xander. Maybe Xander would never see a way to forgive his dad, and maybe there wasn't one, but she wouldn't deny him the future possibility of having a loving father in his life.

A father. Something she'd never had.

“Don't you talk to her. She doesn't need your—”

“It was the worst dream of my life.”

Alex's brows bounced halfway up his forehead, as if startled that Isleen had answered him. But then he picked up the opportunity she'd just tossed him. “A precognitive dream. Science has never been able to confirm their existence. Most claims are hoaxes.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Get in here. This isn't something we want to advertise.” Xander stepped back from the door, and she moved fluidly with his body like they were one person, not two. Xander motioned toward the chair across from the couch. “You can come in, but this doesn't mean we're square. It means Isleen needs information about what's happening to her.”

“I'll help any way I can.” Alex stepped inside Xander's cabin, his gaze taking in all the surroundings while he moved to the chair Xander still pointed at. “You've really fixed this place up. Never thought it could look so quaint and cozy.” Alex was worming his way in via her. And she was going to let him as long he didn't hurt Xander or her ever again.

“One topic only. The dreams.” Xander's voice held no room for argument.

She and Xander moved toward the couch. They walked as if they were a long-married couple engrained in each other's manners and ways. It felt so real and right to be close to him like this. “And there is no question about her dreams.”

They settled on the couch, and she told his father about her dreams of Simon Smith and William Goodspeed. And Xander explained his interviews with the two men. His father asked a few clarifying questions, but never once indicated any disbelief.

The thing no one mentioned was her dream of Gran. Just as well. She wasn't certain she could speak about it anyway.

“If this is a recurrent pattern, do you realize the implications?” Alex aimed his question at her. Her mind conjured no implications beyond the horror of it all. “Lives that could be saved. Simply from a dream. Do you know how revolutionary that would be? And if I can document—”

“She's not your guinea pig or your favorite new toy.”

“That's not my intention.” Alex spoke directly to her. “Gale and I founded the Ohio Institute of Oneirology.”

“Oh—what?” Isleen asked.

“Oneirology. We were pioneers in the field of dream research. We were the first to theorize that dreams were more than just a waste product of the brain. That they could be essential to cognitive functioning, creativity, mental health, and even psychic phenomenon. Did you know Gale was a sleep-talker?”

“Yeah.” Her voice brightened, thinking about Gran. “She was always that way.”

“She was also skilled at mutual dreaming. She could enter another person's dream—without them even knowing—and observe.”

Isleen felt her eyes grow weirdly wide. “That's a real thing? Are you serious?” If Gran could enter another person's dreams… The things she dreamed about with Xander were not things she wanted her grandmother to see.

“Very. Her ability was incredibly fascinating. We were able to document her experience in the dream and compare it with the person who had the dream. It blew people's minds. Either that or they cried hoax and claimed we weren't conducting proper scientific studies. The one downfall to Gale's mutual dreaming was that after every dream, she had a seizure. Have you had a seizure after one of these dreams?”

Alex was asking her, but Xander answered. “She's never had what I'd call a seizure. When it happened in the hospital, she passed out for a few minutes, then came to and was cold and sleepy. When it happened here, she got the headache, but then it went away, then she got sleepy and cold again. The night Gale…” Xander didn't need to say it. “She passed out that night.”

Fuzzy, fringe-of-her-mind memories matched up to Xander's words.

“Seizures come in varying forms. During a precognitive dream, your brain is doing double duty. It's guiding you through the cycles of sleep and operating as normal, but on a different plane of reality.”

“Different plane of reality? What does that mean?” Isleen asked.

“The reason precognitive dreams are so hard to prove is because that different plane of reality only exists inside you. It's not something any test can measure or any scientist can observe. Only you can access it and learn from it. Your physical body remains here, but your mind is operating in two places at the same time. When you wake up, the brain can't handle the overload and shorts out—a seizure.”

She stared into Alex's eyes, looking for even the slightest hint of humor, the joke, the punch line. Because if this wasn't a joke, then he was serious and she was going to have to decide if he was crazy smart or just plain crazy.

“The seizure is the price for being psychic.”

Now she was leaning toward just plain crazy. “I'm not psychic.”

“During your waking hours, you are correct. But in the midst of a precognitive dream, you are being given access to insider information about another reality—which makes you psychic.”

Xander nodded his head as if he were receiving great understanding. “You've seen the interrogations. This is real.”

“You'll need to spend a few nights at the Institute so we can measure and record your brain activity during the dream cycles. It would be groundbreaking to record a precog dream.”

“Is there a way to cure it?” she asked, her voice soft and steady.

“Cure it? Why would you want to make it go away? You have a powerful gift.”

“It doesn't feel like a gift. The things I've seen…” She trailed off, not wanting to access those particular memories.

“An innocent little boy, his mother, and a woman just doing her job are alive today because of that dream you had. Would you trade their lives just so you didn't have to experience that bad dream? How many other lives could your dreams save?”

That was a direct hit on her morality center. There was another way to look at her dreams. They weren't just horrible things she had to witness. They were important—a means to save people. No way would she trade lives for the ability to not dream. She could never be so selfish.

“Do you remember the story of Fearless and Bear?” Alex asked.

Their story was the only part of yesterday that didn't ache when she thought about it. “I remember.”

“I suspect you and Xander are a modern version of them.” He tossed that little bomb out there. Its detonation was quiet, but she felt the shock wave of it rock both her and Xander.

“You said it was your story.” Xander's words were evenly spaced and perfectly clipped.

“It should have been. But now it's yours to finish.” Alex's face was all sober expression, and the way he sat in the chair leaning forward conveyed his earnestness. Isleen glanced at Xander, who bobbed his head as if Alex's words struck a deep truth.

“You believe this?” Incredulity pushed her tone into the squeak range.

Xander turned his gaze to her, grim honesty shining in his eyes. “It makes sense. You see the similarities, right?”

The parallels between her and Fearless lined up nearly perfectly. Fearless had been kidnapped by the Bad Ones. Isleen had Queen. Bear had found and saved Fearless. Isleen had Xander. Fearless discovered she was gifted with dream sight. Isleen had precognitive dreams.

What about hard facts and truth? They had proof her dreams could save lives—okay, she could buy in to that. But the story of Fearless and Bear was fiction. Oh, she
wanted
to believe it, only because she
wanted
Xander to be her destiny. But wanting a thing didn't make it happen.

“You wanna know the real kick in the ass?” Xander nabbed her hand. “The totem Bear carving sits on top of the next hill over. That fucking close this entire time, and I never really knew what it was until yesterday.”

“I want to go see it sometime.”

“I know. Me too. Kinda takes on a whole new meaning now.” His words were filled with unquestioning belief in this.

Alex cleared his throat. “When Gale left—”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Time to leave. I don't want to hear—”

“Alexander. Patrick. Stone.” Alex's tone was loud, sharp, and overflowing with angry father. “You will let me say this. And then I'll leave and you can go back to hating me.” He didn't wait for Xander's agreement, just kept talking, although lowering his volume. “Gale left because she didn't believe. She swore something bad would happen to me if she stayed. When she left… I almost don't have words to describe what happened to me. I left too. I was gone. But not gone. I couldn't think clearly or see clearly or feel anything. Nothing made sense or computed right, except for work. The only clarity I could find was in my research. Maybe because it was the only link I had to Gale.

“It wasn't until…” His voice warbled, high and low. “Until…she…died that I finally broke free from the prison I'd been locked inside all that time. Free to feel all the guilt, anger, and, my God, the regret.” He aimed tortured eyes at Xander. “I know everything I missed. I know I wasn't there as a father, a mentor. I wasn't there for all the small wonderful moments of your childhood, and I especially wasn't there when you almost”—his voice faltered—“died. I will carry that responsibility and remorse for the rest of my life.”

In the silence following Alex's speech, no one moved. Her heart turned puffy soft with compassion toward both of these men who needed each other so badly, but the distance of time and pain separated them.

Alex nodded his head once, stood, and waited as if he expected Xander to say something, but when the quiet continued, he headed toward the door. He paused, hand on the door handle. “It would've been more merciful if someone had just shot me in the head and put me out of my misery.” He opened the door and looked back at Isleen, pinning her immobile with the intense sadness of his gaze. “Don't you ever do to him what Gale did to me.”

* * *

If Isleen responded to Dad's parting words, Xander couldn't hear it. He was lost inside his own thoughts. If this thing between him and Isleen was similar to what Dad claimed to have had with Gale, that granted Isleen the ability to annihilate him. To turn him into the same person as his father. That Xander had let himself go down this road—refusing to listen to Matt's warnings—made him fifty kinds of stupid.

Shit fucking goddamn. Matt had been right all along. Wouldn't the guy just about get wood from being able to say
told you so
?

Xander forced himself to his feet, fighting the physical urge to be close to her. He refused to look at her and fall under her alluring spell. Oh, but his body wanted her, and yet his mind knew the consequences. He needed time to think, time to figure things out, time alone.